On Lighting the Wood Stove
A slow start.
Smoke hangs on the roof
The log had screamed at its birth
then lifted (ever-cherished), in the heat,
it’s very first.
The fiery life that kissed its eyes awake.
The flame so tender held itÂ
loved the smoke,
caressing soft its oldest child,
as it spoke.
It raised it to stand
to rise, to be,
to soar up on the cloudless dawn,
to climb the stove pipe
where the burrow yawns.
To reach at last the
Frosty tin
that madeÂ
its journeys end.
And (at last) held it’s hand:
The touch-less wind;
And rushed alongÂ
Into Elysium.